


Stain the Water Red

by RosesandStatues



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), Supergirl (TV 2015), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, BAMF Felicity Smoak, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Brief Kara x James, Cause I'm too gay for this, Dark!Cisco, Dark!Felicity, Dark!Kara, Earth-1, Earth-2, Earth-x, Endgame Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor, Evil Felicity Smoak, Evil Kara Danvers, Evil Oliver Queen - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Gang AU, Hiatus, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, I Tried, I could make it darker but I'm not going to, I don't know how Im gonna do this cause I want Harry in this but I want it all on one Earth, I don't know where I'm taking this, I suck at updating, I will go down will all of these ships, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Sorry, It's not really a gang though, Just Warning, Like so brief it doesn't even happen, Like would you consider the Rogue's and the canon Arrow team a gang, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not literally, On Hiatus, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, SuperCorp, Tags May Change, That's basically what it is, The Rogues (DCU) As Family, The Rogues - Freeform, Trans Character, Trans Cisco Ramon, Trans Male Character, Triggers, Warnings May Change, Well - Freeform, cause I'm not a psychopath, cause kara is an alien and lena is a human, dark!Barry, dark!Oliver, dark!john, dunno, first time posting something, is it fem/fem or other, jk I'm doing it anyway, like what do I do here, please be kind, please just read this, so fuck me, superman's an ass in this, ten likes and I'll write the next part, thats not even a tag what am I doing with my life, this is super dark, updating not frequent, wait she's already a bamf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-05-19 02:51:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14865228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosesandStatues/pseuds/RosesandStatues
Summary: Cisco runs away from his family, and is fired from his job at Star Labs for being trans.(Alone, starving, dying, but never going back.Never going back until he can burn that goddamn place to the ground.)Barry grows up in the foster system, and learns that people like to believe what is believable and won't listen to what they call "lies."(Joe told him that he would be there for him, but of course, people never keep their promises.Even if they try.)Oliver is the monster that those five years turned him into.(His father, telling him to survive, to right his wrongs. But more importantly, he remembers the gunshots.)Kara is left on Krypton by her cousin to die.(And for the first time, she knew what real hatred felt like.)And Felicity manages to escape her abusive relationship with Cooper, with promises of coming back for blood.(This time, he would be the one begging for her to stop. This time, she would be the one to laugh. )Or, that criminal au that nobody needed but everybody wanted.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I do not support child abuse, rape, or anything like that. If you are being hurt, please please please get help.  
> Also, this will not be written in second person. I only did the first two parts in second because I didn't like how it sounded in first.  
> Follow my tumblr (andleavemebe.tumblr.com) for spoilers and updates on the chapters.

_Cisco_

There’s a moment in everyone’s life when it feels like you’re on the outside looking in, like a person staring through a window. It’s like everything you hadn’t realized (or didn’t _want_ to realize) hits you in the face. The feelings you purposefully shoved down comes bubbling up your throat, burning the back of your mouth and pricking the corners of your eyes.

It’s like a homeless man staring at a family on Christmas, suddenly everything comes crashing down on him. He’s alone, dirty, dying, while they are together, happy, and living.

Usually these moments happen _after_ the fact, when you’re lying face down, attempting not to move your back because then the ice pack will fall off and then the bruises will be worse, and even though it _hurts goddamnit_ , you _can’t_ cry. It will only make your father and mother angrier. It will only make your _fucking perfect_ brother more disappointed in you.

Usually, these moments happen right after you feel like you’re high. Like, after you came out to the person you love, and they called you wanted you wanted to be called. Cisco. Not Juliana. After he called you his boyfriend and didn’t care that that means that he’s gay. He loves you for who you are, no questions asked. When you were so happy and then everything falls down, a house crumbling around your ears, the flames no longer dancing around your skin, but burning the layers off, leaving you raw and exposed, your inside for all to see.  

Usually, these moments bring about a sudden thought of clarity. It isn’t _normal_ for parents to beat their kids so badly they can’t move. It’s not _normal_ for you to have a stash of ice packs in a cooler in your room for bruises. It isn’t _normal_ for your family not to give a fuck whether you went and offed yourself (which you are seriously considering doing) or not. It’s not _normal_ to not be loved by the people who _raised_ you.

And then comes the plans, the schemes, the what-ifs. _What if I killed myself? What if I fight back? What if I called the police?_

And lastly, that what-if that sticks. The one that was always buzzing at the back of your head, always present but never making itself known until now. _What if I ran away?_ It’s this one, this small glimmer of hope that fills your mind, ideas and scenarios seemingly coming out of nowhere.

(But they didn’t come out of nowhere. You remember the nights when the tears seemed unending and the plans ran circles round and round in your head.)

Sometimes, you push it out of your mind. _No. I couldn’t._ But other times, other times you’re so broken, so lost, so _angry_ , that you don’t give a fuck.

You don’t give a fuck and you never will.

(Until you do. Until you have to.)

And so you end up in the slums of Central City, underage, hiding both self harm and abuse marks, searching desperately for a job- _any job_ that you give you money. Avoiding the police, in case your parents decided to care, scavenging in gutters for money, stealing from food carts, grocery stores’ garbages. No work papers, no mailing address, an alleyway as a home. Alone, starving, _dying_ , but never going back.

(Never going back until you can burn that goddamn place to the ground.)

And eventually, remembering that you had someone you could go to. An aunt? Right? Someone who the family shunned for being different.

Like you.

_“Now, he was free to go forth and make a name for himself in the wide, wide world._

_And maybe,_

_just maybe,_

_he’d come back one day,_

_and burn that_

_fucking_

_palace_

_to the ground.”_

_-We Were Liars,_ by Emily Jenkins

  


_Barry_

Sometimes, you see something you never should have. Sometimes, you desperately wish for what people say is right to be _wrong_ . Your father _can’t_ have killed your mom. He was a doctor. He took an _oath_ goddamnit.

(Sometimes oaths don’t matter.)

You’re sent to a house that you have never been in before, to live with people you have never met. They are kind to you, but it still hurts. You still wake up at night, seeing your mothers eyes. (Those cold, dead eyes that once held so much life.) The bright stain of red, soaking through your father’s clothes. The knife glinting, even though the blade is dripping with blood.

And you wake up, screaming, crying, sometimes you’re a rocked back to sleep, other times you are hit and told to be quiet.

(The first home couldn’t last. None of them ever did.)

You try to remember what really happened. The police officer, Joe, grabbed your father, told you to go outside and “ _Don’t look Barry! Don’t look!_ ” You remember how you didn’t move, frozen, staring at your mother’s dead body lying on the ground, the knife lying next to you. The sirens outside. The shouts of your father and of Joe: “ _Let go of me! Let go of me, goddamnit! I didn’t do it!_ ” and “ _Please, Henry, please. Stop making this worse.”_

You remember the way the other police officers swarmed the house, systematically, guns raised. Ready to kill if necessary. You won’t ever forget the sight of your father, the man who placed you on his shoulders and bought your ice cream, the man who checked under the bed for monsters, and kissed the bad nightmares away, being shoved into a police car and driven away. The feeling of Joe’s arms wrapping around your thin frame, rubbing circles into your back as you cling to him, needing to cry but the tears refusing to come.

(When they came later, you wished for the moments when you felt too numb to cry.)

Joe told you that he would be there for you, but of course, people never keep their promises.

(Even if they try.)

And that’s the way Barry grew up, waking from nightmares of gleaming knives and dead eyes, finding comfort in science, never growing too attached to a home because he would be forced to leave soon. Learning to keep from screaming when he wakes up, teaching himself to hide the anger that squirmed under the surface. He learns to hide the scars on his wrists, because people are uncomfortable when they are faced with real problems, when they are faced with a person who resorts to feeling something through pain. He learns how to force himself to live, even when he feels like dying.

(Sometimes oaths don’t matter. But sometimes, sometimes, they do.)

“ _There’s more to life than just surviving but sometimes surviving is all you get.”_

 _-_ Charles De Lint

 

_Oliver_

He remembers the feeling of the rocking boat, the remnants of happiness still flowing through his veins.

(Isn’t it funny how emotions never seem to fade fast enough. They will sit in the bottom of your stomach, churning, forcing you to pay attention to them. They don’t disappear immediately. They slowly fade from view.)

He remembers the feeling of his girlfriend’s sister pressing up against his skin, her soft mewls and giggles.

(The laughter of someone who knew she was doing something wrong, but didn’t want to stop.)

And then he remembers screaming, the freezing water replacing the warmth of Sara. The darkness slamming against his eyelids, and the deafening silence that seemed so loud yet so quiet. And he remembers the occasional cry that broke it.

When thinking back on the event, he doesn’t remember how comforting the deep looked, and how if he just _let_ _go_ then all of the pain would stop. He doesn’t remember the harsh feel of the someone’s fingers on his arm, the painful tugging sensation upwards into light and air. He doesn’t remember feeling the raft under his skin for the first time, the chest compressions to get the water out of his lungs. He doesn’t remember the howl of the wind, nor does he remember the stinging cold of the rain. He remembers sitting up, and leaning over the side of the boat. He remembers feeling desperate, screaming Sara’s name against the wind.

He remembers the light being too bright, too harsh. He remembers counting the survivors- only three, counting in himself and his dad. He remembers wondering where the other people were. His father, telling him to survive, to right his wrongs. But more importantly, he remembers the gunshot. His screams, the blood that seemed to be endless. (Why does blood always seem endless?) The body of that man- _What was his name? Why can’t he remember his name?_ \- floating away in the water, staining the water red. He remembers the first time he caught sight of the island, of Lian Yu, and thinking that he was saved.

He remembers the first time he caught sight of his prison.

“ _Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you."_

 _-_ Friedrich Nietzsche

 

_Kara_

“ _Please!_ ” She had screamed, “ _Kal-El don’t leave me!_ ” She watched Kal-El’s retreating form, heading for the pods. Her leg burned from the weight of the beam on it, her lungs closing up from the radiation poisoning. The smell of Krypton burning- of people _dying_ filled her nose. Screams filtered through the chaos, tearing the air like a blunt knife.

(Why do people always scream when they die?)

She was abandoned.

Alone.

She was going to die.

(She wasn't ready to die.)

And for the first time, she knew what real hatred felt like.

(And that’s all that needed to be said.)

_“My hatred gives me strength.”_

_-_ Janet Fitch

 

_Felicity_

She sat in the corner, legs pulled to her chest, shaking from silent sobs. The scent of the beer Cooper had been drinking covered her skin, and no matter how hard Felicity scratched, she couldn’t get the feeling of his hands off of her.

A shower wouldn’t work either. She tried that before, and it only got him angry from the amount of hot water she used. (She had burns on her legs and back for weeks.) Her mom’s voice rang in her head, “ _Honey? Are you alright? Is he… Is he hurting you?_ ” She hadn’t responded.

(How do you lie about something that is killing you inside?)

And so, she sat there, long after the tears stopped coming and the numbness set in.

(How do you lie about _someone_ that’s killing you?)

Finally, she sat up- no, _crawled_ up, and wrapping her arms tightly around herself. Cooper and Myron would be wondering where she was. She had work to do, writing that virus. Keeping Cooper happy.

She stumbled in, pressing herself against the wall, and sliding into her seat. Cooper strutted towards her- _Pleasedon’ttouchmepleasedon’ttouchme_ \- his hands rubbing her shoulders.

_(Pleasedon’ttouchmepleasedon’ttouchme)_

“Have you gotten any work done on the virus?” She didn’t want to answer, she wanted him to _gethishandsoffofme._  His grip tightened, “Well?”

“N-not yet. No.” Her voice was quiet. Pathetic.

Broken.

Myron glanced there way, but then his gaze darted back to his computer screen.

(He probably thought that she was asking for it.)

“And why not?”

 _Pleasepleaseplease,_ “I haven’t had the time. With classes and everything.”

A hiss escaped Cooper’s lips. “Well, get working on it. We don’t have time for this.” A smirk crossed his lips. “We’ve got big plans, ain’t that right, sweetheart?”

His hands cupped her face _(pleasepleaseplease)_  and she forced a smile on, one that was twisted from being used too much at all the wrong places. “Yes, Cooper.”

Later, when the FBI came, Cooper didn’t hesitate to point at her. “She did it! I told her not too! I _begged_ her, but she insisted. Said that she was doing it ‘for the greater good.’” Oh the lies that fell from his mouth, and oh the lies that would soon fall for hers.

When she was escorted out of the courtroom in chains, of course, she only caught a glimpse of her mother’s face, soaked in tears.

 _(Just like her father_ , she was probably thinking.)

But when Cooper came to visit her, when they talked through the glass window, when she _still_ hadn’t gotten his hands off of her, when he said, “You’re just too much of a hindrance right now. You can’t do anything in here.”

When he didn’t say thank you.  
When he didn’t beg for her forgiveness.

And when she said goodbye, (because you only say goodbye to someone you want to see again) that was when she decided that she was going to find him again.

And this time, there wouldn’t be anyone to say goodbye to. This time, _he_ would be the one begging for _her_ to stop.

This time, she would be the one to laugh.

“ _Years of love_

_Have been forgot,_

_In the hatred of a minute.”_

_-_ Edgar Allan Poe

 


	2. Cisco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2529 words. I'll try to make them longer next time.

Cisco’s hand hovered over the wooden door. He had come this far. Spent the last of his money on a train ticket, walked two miles in the rain, found out he was going in the complete wrong direction. But he made it here, clothes stiff from dying on his body, frozen from the tips of his toes to the top of his ears. But he was _here,_ on their front porch, the moon hidden behind a layer of clouds. Here, where he might finally be accepted.

Or where he might be shunned again.

Seconds passed, Cisco’s hand wavered.

(Barely an inch between him and the door, fingers tingling from being so close to a solid surface. Barely a second before he could take it no longer and he would have to make his decision.)

And he knocked.

The sound was jarringly loud, and seemed to reverberate down through his spine and into the tips torn-sneaker-clad toes. Nobody answered, and Cisco hesitated again. There were cars in the driveway, and lights were on in the kitchen

Maybe they hadn’t heard him?

Should he knock again?

Maybe this was a sign. Maybe he should leave.

(And then he remembered his parents, the feeling of a belt on his back. The sting of an ice pack, and that name. That _awful, awful_ name that he grew to hate with every bit of his being, the name that forced him to be everything he didn't _want_ to be.)

And so, Cisco rapped on the door again.

And again.

And again, until he was pounding on the door, vibrations shaking his arm, a sharp pain exploding through his knuckles whenever they connected the thick door. Finally (finally) he heard a sharp, _“Alright, I’m coming,”_ and the door swung open, his hand raised in the air again, poised to knock.  

He quickly dropped it, and stared up at the women who answered the door.

This wasn’t his aunt.

He didn’t know who she was.

Maybe he got the wrong house.

Maybe they moved and never bothered to change the address on their social media.

Maybe he came all this way and had to go back again.

The women frowned at him. Glanced at the duffel bag clenched in his other hand. “Yes? You were knocking?”

He opened and closed his mouth, took a step back, then another, until he could feel the stone step drop away beneath him, his heel seemingly floating in oblivion, making him feel unbalanced, untethered.

And then another woman came to the door. She tilted her head at Cisco, and smiled a smile that could outshine suns. “Juliana! What are you doing here?”

Cisco didn’t respond. Didn’t know how to.

“Come in! Come in!” His aunt beckoned at him, and stepped back into the house. “Oh, darling, you're freezing!” Cisco faltered, but only briefly, before regaining the steps he took and stumbled into the house, bag thumping gently against his leg. The house was warm, and bathed in a pretty golden light. It was homey, with couches and coffee tables and pictures documenting every good moment together.

Every moment of his aunt and the women who answered the door.

His aunt babbled on, about how they just sat down for dinner, and how she didn’t know that Cisco was going to drop by and “Why didn’t you call ahead? We could have the guest room set up for you!”

Eventually, she stopped, and blinked. “Oh! I forgot! Darling, this is Juliana, my niece. And this is-” his aunt motioned to the woman who answered the door, the woman with fiery red hair and an expression to match. (Whose green eyes seemed as hard as diamonds, but when they looked at his aunt they melted into soft pools of water.) Aileen smiled at Cisco, an expression that didn’t quite seem to reach her eyes. “Nice to meet you.” Her voice held a faint Scottish lilt, one that had long lost its strength but was still present in some sounds. Cisco nodded, and shifted awkwardly, still standing on the doormat.

This was a bad idea. They would send him back to his parents. His “brilliant” escape plan would fall apart in seconds. But he couldn’t just leave. If he just randomly ran, they would think he was insane. Or worse, they would call the police.

“So,” Aileen spoke again, and Cisco found himself growing fond of her voice, “What brings you to this part of Central City?”

“I… uh…” Cisco trailed off, and was acutely aware of the fact that those were the only words he had spoken throughout this entire ordeal.

And then his aunt spoke the question he was dreading. The one he knew was coming but desperately wanted to avoid. “Where are your parents, Juliana?”

He didn’t respond.  
“Do they know you’re here?” Yes, he really liked her voice.

“Juliana?”

And he couldn’t stand it, he couldn’t stand that _goddamn_ name and everything that it had caused. “Could you- could you please not call me that?”

His aunt and Aileen blinked in almost perfect sync, twin expressions of confusion flitting across their faces. “What do you mean?” His aunt was as gentle as he remembered from the faint memories he had of her.

(Soft hands dancing up and down his side, eliciting giggles from his mouth, running through his hair when the lightning kissed the back of his eyelids and thunder rumbled in his ears. That quiet voice counting in between the flashes until Cisco came out from wherever he was hiding, pressed his nose against the cold window pane, and counted along.

And that fight, the one that made him dart under his bed and cover his ears, wishing for everybody to just _get along._

_“I refuse to have a fag in this house!”_

_“Please,”_ desperation leaking through her voice, _“I love her. More than anything. And I love you. Don’t make me choose.”_

 _“It’s not natural, and I won’t expose my children to it.”_ He remembers asking his mother where his auntie went, and seeing a harsh crease form in between her eyebrows, a crease that afterwards never seemed to go away. _“We do not speak her name in this house.”_ And that was the last Cisco ever heard of her. Last he every _saw_ of her. Until now.)

“I-I mean…” (This was his chance. His chance to finally burn that name and everything it stood for once and for all.) “I mean I want you to call me Cisco.”

He could see light bulbs fill their eyes, the green ones finally softening in his direction, and the chocolate brown ones that were already soft filling with understanding.

Cisco wanted to cry. They got it.

They got him.

“Why don’t you have dinner with us?” Probing, that Scottish lilt seemingly making everything kinder. “And we can talk?”

Cisco nodded.

(They got him.)

 

The silence at the table was tense, awkward. Nobody knew how to start the conversation that filled everybody’s mind. Cisco drummed his fingers on the shiny table top, picking at his food. He was starving- he hadn’t eaten in several days, but he didn’t want to them any clue as to where he had been sleeping the past few weeks.

(If they had any clue they might send him back.)

“So,” his aunt started. “What are you doing here, Cisco?”

Aileen watched him, the glow from the lamps causing her eyes to light up in a shade of green.

(But it doesn’t matter what color her eyes were. What mattered was the fact that you could see deep bags hanging from her eyes. What mattered was the way that they would shift to his aunt constantly, almost like she was waiting for something to happen. What mattered was that Cisco thought that she was waiting for something bad to happen.)

“I… I,” Cisco paused, hoping for something, anything to help him. To save him.

“Well?” Aileen, leaning forward in her chair, those eyes (those eyes that held so much but so _little_ _)_ watching him carefully. He was learning that she was the forward one of the pair.

What does he say? If he lies, and the lie isn’t strong enough, he might be sent back. If tells the truth, then he might be sent back as well.

This was his last hope. The only people who would accept him as _him_ (in more ways than one.)

“I…”

Truth or lies?

Lies or truth?

“I…”

“Spit it out,” Aileen again. The Scottish lilt no longer sounded comforting. She sounded menacing. Dangerous.

(Cisco wondered if he had imagined the gentleness before.)

“Aileen,” his aunt. Careful. Warning. Aileen leaned back in her seat, some of the hardness gone from her stature. But not all. “Take your time, Cisco. We’re here to listen.” A smile crossed his aunt’s face, and Cisco’s lips twitched as well.

(When was the last time he smiled? Truly smiled, not the fake one you put on at family gatherings, the type of smile that really mattered. That one that parted your hard outer coating and revealed the soft wispy soul inside.)

Breath in.

Breath out.

And lie.

“My parents, they wanted me to come here, to y’know: ‘Get better.’” Oh, the power of air quotes. “I’m supposed to stay here.”

A share of glances. Shifting in the seats. Aileen, opened her mouth, but his aunt got there first. “I’m sure we can work something out. Why don’t you go upstairs to the guest bedroom, and let us talk?”

Cisco nodded. Stood up. Picked up his bag. Shuffled towards the stairs. Aileen, with her hair on fire, glared into his back, and then abruptly swiveled her head to face his aunt.

(And if this were his parents, he would run to his bedroom and lock the door. Turn on music. Curl beneath the covers. Pretend to ignore the words that felt like knives in a fistfight, words that were thrown around so loosely the speakers almost forgot they had said them a few seconds later.)

He walked up the stairs, and was quickly greeted by the fact that he had absolutely no idea where he was going. He sighed, and sat down on the top of the wooden steps. Tilted his head upwards towards the ceiling, towards the stars.

When he was younger, (back when he didn’t worry about things like his name, or the way his chest was slowly getting bigger, or the way that he couldn’t look at himself naked because it made him want to fall apart), he would study the stars constantly. He would save up his allowance and then spend it all on almanacs detailing the night sky. He would troll the internet for hours, looking up black holes and supernovas and gas clouds, anything that wasn’t here on Earth. It amazed him, how big the world really was. How small _he_ was, and all of the other lives that could be out there. All of the other sunrises, all of the other air and gravity and trees and waterfalls. It was beautiful, the way that the stars seemed to know all of your secrets, and the way that he knew they would never tell a soul.

When he got older, he stopped looking at the stars. It only made him long for worlds he was never going to see.

But now, sitting on the top of the wood-polished steps, he began to recite their names, names that, even after all this time, had not left him.

Largest to smallest.

VY Canis Majoris to EBLM J0555-57Ab.

155,000 times the size of Earth to about 9.5 times the size of Earth.

Massive to slightly less massive.

Then, when he got bored, he moved on to constellations. Orion. Taurus. Canis Major. Canis Minor. Leo. Gemini. Cassiopeia. Libra. Pegasus. Ursa Major. Hydra.

He spoke faster and faster, never more than a whisper, wishing for the old days when things were easier.

(Pretending, once again, not to hear their voices. Aileen and his aunt. The, “ _He can’t stay here, Tonia. He needs to go back to his family,”_ and, “ _You know what they’re like, Ail. They were tear him apart, break him down. We can’t send him back to that horrible place._ ” The, _“We don’t have the money right now to afford him. Especially with… everything,”_ and, _“We’ll make it work.”_ )

Moved on to planets.

Mercury. Venus. Earth. Mars. Jupiter. Saturn. Uranus. Neptune. Pluto.

 _(“I don’t think that it is a good idea. And I think that she’s- sorry, he’s lying._ _” “What about? That his parents sent him here, so that she-_ fuck _, he could ‘fix’ himself. That sounds a lot like my sister._ ”)

Moved on to _other_ planets.

PSR B1620-26 b, Epsilon Eridani b, Gliese 876 b.

 _(“But why here? You’re family hates you. If they wanted to ‘fix him’, whatever_ that _means, then why would they send him to the only homosexual person in your entire family?_ ” _“Look, Ail, he needs us right now. He’s vulnerable. Scared._ _”)_

And black holes, the destroyer of worlds, the vacuum in the vacuum. The monsters in the shadows.

NGC 1275. NGC 1399. NGC 1277.

 _(“I just think that- ” “Please, Ail. For me?_ ”)

And of course, Sagittarius A. The one at the center of everything.

At least for us.

 _(“I-” “Please?”_ A sigh, _“Fine. For a few days.”)_

Cisco was home free- he was safe. And yet all he could think of was how he was just spinning in a circle, in an ever-repeating spiral.

Footsteps up the stairs caused Cisco to tilt his head back downwards, away from the stars that offered the escape he so desperately wanted.

Aileen paused at where she was on the steps, a small scowl creasing her lips. She didn’t want him here. But she wouldn’t abandon him.

She wasn’t a Ramon, after all.

“I didn’t know where the guest bedroom was,” Cisco said, hating how pathetic his voice sounded. “And I didn’t want to ransack your house looking for it.”

She nodded, and continued her way up the stairs, brushing Cisco when she passed him. Pretending to ignore his flinch.

(So much pretending. So much ignoring. Cisco sometimes wondered where the world would be if everyone stopped _pretending.)_

“Follow me. We’ll give you the tour tomorrow.” She paused, and glanced back at him. Wrinkled her nose. “And you can take a shower then too.” Cisco nodded. Didn’t even try to feign offence. (He knew that he reeked. Consequence of sleeping in an alleyway.)

Aileen marched resolutely passed doors opened into other rooms. One that held a TV. One that held a messy bed. One with a desk. One with the door closed firmly into its frame.

(Incredible, how even in someone’s own home they tried to hide things from themselves.)

Walked to the end of the hallway, sharp turn left, and into the first room on the right. The door creaked upon opening, and, despite there being no dust in the room, it held a lonely air that implied that no one had lived in it for a while.

The sadness a room held just by being empty.

Aileen nodded, as if deeming the room was sad enough for him. “You can sleep in here.” An awkward shuffle, another nod. “I’ll leave you to it then,” and she walked out with that determined air of hers, but Cisco couldn’t help get the feeling she was fleeing.

He sat down on the bed with the light blue bedspread. White pillows, a window covered by blinds, self conscious of the fact that he was rumpling the perfect sheets. He laid down, feet dangling off the edge, back aching slightly from the position.

And he dreamt of worlds he would never be able to visit.

" _Too often, the only escape is sleep._ ”

    -Charles Bukowski

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be about Barry. Follow my Tumblr (andleavemebe.tumblr.com) for updates on the story and maybe even a few spoilers and excerpts from unpublished chapters!


	3. Barry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2831 words.

He remembers his first home, all those years ago. In the living room, there was a bright pink rug. His room’s walls were painted blue. There was a large wooden table in the dining room. A tiny kitchen that really only held a microwave and a few cabinets. The house itself was nice, and so were the people.

A woman with curly blonde hair. A man with neat, straight hair. Churchgoers. Participated in town meetings, smiled at strangers. Your typical nice person.

And Barry wasn’t nice.

He tried to be. He really, really tried. But after he ran away for the second time _(“I just want to talk to my dad!”)_ they decided that he wasn’t a good “fit” and he was sent to an orphanage.

That first night there, sleeping in a lumpy cot, eyes closed against the pressing darkness, the soft breathing of other kids surrounding him, he felt a strange burning feeling right behind his ribcage, filling his lungs with a fire that rivaled an explosion.

His hands shook.

His throat ached from trying to keep down a scream.

Eyes burned, but no tears came.

It was the first time, but not the last, that Barry was really, truly angry.

Barry doesn’t remember the second house all that well. He remembers smiles, gentle arms holding him when he shot awake, eyes sore from the crying, a headache pounding at his skull. He remembers soft questions, _“Are you alright, Barry? Do you need to talk about it?_ ”

After they discovered the wounds on his wrist, the words inevitably fell from their mouths. _“We’re really sorry, Barry. But we just don’t think you’re a good fit here, y’know? You understand, don’t you?_ ” Falling from their mouths, spewing poison at everyone they touched, and so, so _fake_ _._ _Fake_ concern. _Fake_ sorrow. _Fake, fake, fake._

_Why was everyone so fake?_

The next time he was at the orphanage, he couldn’t help but cry. Was there something wrong with him? Why was everyone leaving him? What was he _doing?_

After earning a few bruises, Barry’s tears ran dry.

Crying is for the weak.

And he refused to be weak.

 

Barry doesn’t remember who he went to that third time. He remembers the stinging pain of a slap. The harsh words and empty bottles that lay scattered on the floor. And he remembers the _hatred._

He was older now. Old enough to realize that it was a waste of good blood to slice his wrists.

It wasn’t his fault.

No.

It wasn’t _his fault._ So why should _he_ be the one to pay?

Everyone else deserved his pain. His hatred. _He_ should be happy. _He_ should have been dating Iris-

_Iris._

He still spoke to her, if you could call emailing each other speaking. She kept trying to set up a face-to-face. _We could go get lunch, or something. Let’s talk about it, Bar._

And then the police realized that _Oh shit, this kid is being abused_ and it was all _“_ _You’re going to be okay now, honey. He can’t hurt you anymore. It’s okay if you need to cry.”_

But Barry’s tears had long ran dry, and he no longer cared for people’s fake concern.

He didn’t respond to Iris. He wasn’t Bar anymore.

 

Barry doesn’t remember the next houses, homes, four, five, six, seven, and eight. All within the span of four-and-a-half years. Nine, he remembers nine though. Not because of the people. Not because of the foster siblings, or the house.

He remembers nine because it was the first time he ever stole something.

(The first time his adrenaline rushed through his veins, his heart pounding in his ears. The first time a grin streaked across his face and laughter tumbled out of his mouth.)

He had just gotten off of school, sporting a few new bruises from the pretentious rich assholes who thought it was funny his parents were killed and nobody wanted him. (He’d show them all. He’d show them all in the end.) He had walked to his favorite hangout, an alley behind a convenience store. There, the world seemed to be shown as it truly was- covered in trash, old gum, and graffiti. Reeking of feces and tears. Smoke seemed to be constantly embedded into the air, mixing with Barry’s breath fogging in front of his mouth. A few meters away, a homeless man lay curled in a blanket, shaking from the chill.

Barry could have given him his jacket. He had a sweatshirt on anyways.

But he didn’t.

(Barry had stopped caring about others a long time ago.)

He pulled out a cigarette, a lighter, and with a small _tsk_ the cherry flamed red and the smell of smoke filled the air. The homeless man tilted his head at him, dirty gray curls framing his filthy face, eyes blinking slowly as if he was having difficulty processing the scene in front of him. “That’s a nasty habit to get into, y’know.”

“So is sleeping in an alleyway.” No emotion, no anger. He had gotten used to adults judging him.

The man blinked, and laughed. “You can say that again,” he chuckled, before rolling away again. Curling tighter, blocking out the world, blocking out his problems.

Barry took another hit of the cig, squeezed his eyes shut.

Breathe in flame.

Exhale smoke.

Repeat as needed.

Five cigarettes later, the sky had finally given up trying to retain a light blue color and had allowed itself to turn a dark blue, then purple. And slowly, slowly, black.

Barry should go home- no, he should go to the house. It wasn’t his home- but he didn’t want to. It was too soon, too early. He wanted to scream at the sky, he wanted to slaughter those assholes.

He wanted to see his father.

But he didn’t do any of that. Instead, he walked around the store, through the doors, a gust of warm air hitting his face. The smells of warm and cold food, candy, soda, filled his nose. Bright colors drawing his sight everywhere. He was aware of the fact that he didn’t have any money. And he was aware of the fact that he was the only one in the store.

The cashier glanced lazily at him. “Pizza pies are a dollar off.”

Barry nodded. Pretended to care. He wandered through the aisles. Not certain _what_ he was doing there, but the longer he walked the rows the more he was certain that _something_ was waiting for him.

(Cheesy, he knew. But he couldn’t deny the feeling that something big was going to happen.)

He meandered into the candy aisle. Picked up a Snickers. Put it down. And then picked it up again. Smiled.

A few minutes later, he was sprinting down the street, ducking into back alleys, the Snickers tucked into his waistband. The shouts of the cashier ringing in his ears.

And a grin etched onto his face, and laughter dancing on his lips.

(It was the first time he realized why people took drugs- because that feeling of being on top of the world, of being so _invincible_  was addicting.)

 

It was stupid really. He didn’t _need_ the car. But he _wanted_ it. And when he wanted it, Barry usually tended to get everything he could to get it. But here he was: no car, a bruise on his ribs from where the police officer tackled him, and aching teeth from clenching them against the idiots in the holding cell around him.

A man swaggered up to him. “Lookie here, boys. A cherry.” Catcalls filled the cell, and smirks tumbled across faces. The man, wearing a leather jacket and sporting just enough scars to make them seem intentional, leaned in, grinning, his breath thick with the smell of whiskey. “Whatcha in here for, cherry?”

Barry lolled his head at him, a grin of his own filling his face. “None of your damn business, you fucker.”

The man snapped back, a growl rumbling from his throat. “Whaddya just call me, _cherry.”_

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were as deaf as you were stupid.” Barry stood up, made a show of clearing his throat. “I _said_ that you were a fucker.”

The man roared, lunged from him. But Barry ducked, came up underneath his arm, and slammed his hand into the man’s groin. A scream replaced the roar, and the man crumbled like paper. Barry sat down, head thrown back, and this time grinned with blood stained teeth.

A police officer rushed to the cell, hand on his gun, eyes scanning the crowd. “What happened?” He demanded.

“I think he had a little too much to-” Barry stopped short, eyes growing wide. “Joe?” The police officer- Joe, took a step back. Mouth opening slightly.

“Barry?” A moment of silence filled the cell, the other jailmates either not caring or caring a little too much for comfort, and then that moment was over, with Joe opening the door, grabbing Barry by the arm, slamming it shut again.

He dragged Barry through the police station, drawing several curious glances, before he reached an interrogation room and through him inside, the door swinging shut with a loud _bang_.

“What the _hell_ _,_ Barry? What are you _doing_ here?”

Barry frowned, rubbed his arm where Joe had grabbed him. “I got arrested.” He left out the ‘obviously’ part. It didn’t feel like the time.

Joe started pacing, ringing his hands. “For _what_ _?”_

Barry sighed, “I got caught stealing.”

Joe spun on him, “Stealing _what_ _?”_ You could see it on his face- he was begging, pleading, it to be something simple. Something that could be waved with a small fine. 

“A car.”

Joe made a choking sound, _“A car?_ ”

“Yeah. It looked cool. Lightning bolts on the hood, whole thing colored red.” Another choking sound, Barry was getting slightly concerned there was something stuck in his throat. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

 _“Not that big of a deal_ _?”_ Joe spluttered, “You tried to _steal a car_ _,_ Barry! You could be thrown in _jail!”_

Barry paused, thought briefly. “So what?”

 _“So what?!_ It’s _jail_ _!”_ Joe spun on him, took several steps forward. “And what were you doing _stealing a car?_ ”

“I told you. It looked cool.”

Joe ran his hands across his scalp. Touched his gun. Resumed pacing. Stop, and turned to face him again, shoulders sagging. “Please, Barry. Don’t be like your father.”

Barry froze. Feet moving back. And then the anger, churning with his blood, burning in the pit of his stomach. _“Don’t you dare. Don’t you_ dare _bring Dad into this.”_

“Barry, if you keep going the way your going, you are going to end up just like-”

 _“He did not kill my mom!”_ All of the words in the world could not describe the hatred he felt, all the way down to the tips of his toes.

“Please-”

Barry stood up straighter, raised his chin. No point in being angry at people who refuse to listen. “Go to hell, Joe.”

“Barry-”  
“And do me a favor,” he took a step closer, his breath fanning across the police officer’s face. “Save me a seat.” And with his head held high, he walked out of the room, and back into the cell.

 

One year in state prison, charged with Grand Theft Auto. He’ll be released just a few weeks shy of his eighteenth birthday, and Barry couldn’t find it in himself to care.

The first night at the prison was rough, everybody wanted to know who the new, stick thin white kid was. No, correction. Everyone’s _fists_ wanted to know who the new, stick thin white kid was.

He could feel the anger bubbling away in his stomach, sticking its fiery head up his throat. But he wanted to get _out_ of there, and he couldn’t do that by making a scene. So Barry took the punches, the kicks. Until he didn’t anymore.

He broke the guy's arm in three places, earned himself solitary confinement for two weeks. It was peaceful, just him and his thoughts. Until his thoughts grew fangs and claws and tore at the inside of his brain.

It was all worth it, though. When he got out, people no longer smirked at him when he showed his face. They eyed him, but everyone was eyeing everyone in prison.  And, if he hadn’t gone to solitary, Len never would have approached him, and Barry’s life never would have started.

Barry had just finished washing all of the dishes, and was meandering the field, his palms itching, begging for him to steal something, _anything_. Other inmates dotted the field, snarling at each other, pretending to be something they’re not.

He had leaned against the wall, fingers tapping against his pant leg. Before, back in one of the good houses, they had noticed his tendency to be constantly moving, whether his leg was bouncing or fingers drumming. They took him to a doctor, and he was diagnosed with ADHD.

(As well as depression and PTSD, but that didn’t matter.)

Those were the good days. He always had cash from selling the Adderall to his classmates on him (even though he never used it), but once the foster parents caught on to what he was doing, they sent him straight back to the orphanage, with a sentence of eleven months of community service. Eleven months spent scraping gum off of public benches and scrubbing brick walls covered with graffiti. Eleven months spent picking up other people’s shit and cleaning their messes.

Eleven months where he had all the time in the world to spend the money he earned. (That was when Barry learned the art of swindling.)

(But the past wasn’t a good place to spend one’s thoughts. Thoughts belonged to the future.)

Bricks pressing against his back, a breeze ruffling through his hair, the scratchy clothing itching his thin frame. Body conveying a sense of ease, but his eyes told a different story. Darting from person to person, scanning their pockets, their hands. Looking for someone who might be willing to pick a fight.

And so, he spotted Leonard and Mick long before they reached him, Leonard with a small smirk on his face, Mick with his typical blank expression. They stopped in front of him, Mick folding his arms, Len leaning on the wall.

Barry didn’t care for these assholes. He didn’t care for anyone. “Yes?”

Leonard’s smirk grew. “You’re Barry Allen?”

A grin, (fake, as always), “The one and only.”

Leonard held out his hand, “Leonard Snart, the name.” Barry glanced at the outstretched hands and kept his buried deep in his pockets.

Mick leaned in, “Cocky. I like him,” his deep gravelly voice seemed to cause vibrations up and down his spine.

“What do you want?” He wanted to get these assholes out of here as fast as possible.

Len’s smirk remained fixed on his face. “We have a deal.” A brief pause, to heighten anticipation. “We heard you took down Bracer. Not an easy man to put in the infirmary.”

“It’s easy when you’re not an idiot.”

A wider smirk, it was becoming very apparent who the talker was between the pair. “And we take it you’re not an idiot.”

“Don’t flatter me.”

Mick’s mouth twitched, the closest he would ever get to a smile.

Another brief pause, though this one wasn’t for anticipations sake, this was them trying to figure out what to say. Len’s icy eyes (both in colour and in mirth) stared at Barry. “There’s a job, that we have been planning for months now.”

“But?”

“But we can’t do it with just the two of us. And we heard what you’re in for, so we decided to…”

“Give the stick a chance,” Mick supplied.

Barry went back to eyeing the other inmates. “No thanks.”

Len leaned in, so close their noses were almost touching, “Excuse me?”

Barry’s eyes fixated on Len’s, staring him down. “I said, ‘No thanks.’”

Mick’s lips lifted at the corners again, “I didn’t know we said you had a choice.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It can be.”

Barry surveyed the yard once more, before turning back to the inmates in front of him. “What do I get out of it?”

Len grinned this time, a grin sharpened by teeth that gleamed in the sunlight. “How about this: We spring you from prison, and you help us.”

“How do you know that I’m not just gonna book it when I get out?”

Mick laughed, if you could call it that. “You can try.”

Barry surveyed the yard one more time, before turning back to the pair. He was done with the prison scene. It had long grown boring.

 _Life_ had long grown boring, and it was high time some excitement was brought back in.

Barry grinned (not so fake this time) and stuck out his hand. “Why the hell not?”


	4. Oliver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2335 words. Sorry for the wait, I got really, really sick and couldn't write.

His feet moved without his brain thinking, jumping from rocks to the ground and back again without any hesitation. Moving a path he had ingrained in his brain, one that he had run for hours on end.

Long hair fell in his eyes, beard scratched at his chin, but his hands moved with sureness as pulled himself up on the rock face, his cold green orbs catching sight of his savoir- a rusty fishing boat that was loitering in the bay. Yanking himself up all the way, running along the top of the cliff, and picking up the bow and arrow that lay at the other end. Not wasting a moment, he lit the arrow with a deft swipe against a rock, and then it was all muscle memory- eyes on target, draw back the string, breathe in, loosen fingers, twist of the elbow, fire and breathe out.

Easy.

Practiced.

The arrow went directly to where he intended it to go (of course it did) and lit the teepee of sticks on the shore with a small _whoosh_ of air and explosion of flame. Brief beat of silence and then shouts ringing up from the boat.

Slowly, slowly, it drew closer to shore and released two men, who trepidatiously walked onto the beach, eyeing the red and black mask sitting on a stake with an arrow through its eyes. Finally, _finally,_ they saw Oliver, walking towards them, dressed in green rags, covered in hair.

Stranded for five years, having dreamt of his rescue every cold, black night since then. For five years, he has had only one thought, one goal: survive. Survive and one day return home, to a place where he didn’t have to survive.

Because he would be the one taking the lives.

The men wouldn’t just leave him there, of course. They took him aboard their ship, wrapped a blanket around him even though he had long grown used to the cold. Gave him a rich fish soup in a ceramic mug, idled around him. Uncertain of what to do.

One of the men- he had long since forgotten their names- eventually meandered up to him, knelt down, catching his eye.

He stared down at the man and eventually in a voice rough from disuse, spoke. “Do you speak English?”

The man nodded, “A little.” A brief pause. “What is your name?”

He opened his mouth, and then shut it again. So many names he has used. So many different places those names have taken him. So many different names he has been called.

Thief.

Brother.

Murderer.

Which would he be this time? What name would he go by?

Monster.

He opened his mouth again. “My name is Oliver Queen.”

The man drew back, surprise flitting across his features. Oliver Queen was supposed to be dead, lost at sea five years ago.

(And in a way, Oliver Queen _was_ lost at sea five years ago. He was lost the first time he caught sight of Lian Yu.)

 _“The_ Oliver Queen?”

“Yes.” He never had to practice an emotionless voice. It came naturally to him.

The man muttered something in Mandarin, possibly along the lines of _This surely cannot be Oliver Queen! This man is insane!_ Oliver wasn’t quite sure- his Mandarin was rusty.

“Would you- Would you like more soup?”

Oliver nodded, and fought the urge to touch the journal in his pocket. A journal filled with names that would never belong to anyone anymore. A journal filled with the names of the soon-to-be deceased.

“Can I also use the phone?”

 

The line rang for several seconds, before a light _click_ echoed through the speaker, closely followed by a, “Hello?”

“Mom, it’s- it’s Oliver.”

A long silence stretched over the other end, before Moira finally responded in a voice dripping with venom, “My son has been dead for five years. Please don’t call here-”

“Mom- Mom, please. Just listen to my voice.” Another pause. “It’s Oliver. I did not die on the Gambit. I’m alive, I’m okay.”

“O-Oliver?” Moira’s voice, shaky with repressed tears. “Oliver, is that you?”

And he was home free. (It’s amazingly easy to fake emotions, even when you’re forcing tears into your voice with a smile on your face.)

 

The ship, upon his request, brought him into Starling City, and from there it was hugs with his mother- fake tears, fake _I-love-yous_ _,_ and then to the hospital, where the doctors told Moira what he already knew.   _(“Twenty percent of his body is covered in scar tissue. Second degree burns on his back and arms. X-rays show at least twelve fractures that never properly healed.”_ ) And then the warning, the warning to Moira that the Oliver she lost might not be the one they found.

(And how true they were.)

From there it was Thea bombarding him with hugs, more tears, dinner, and bed. He could hear them, that night, loitering outside his bedroom, glancing through the cracked door, it wasn’t long though, before he was left alone.

He crossed off the first name (Adam Hunt) that night.

But from there, things slowly spiraled downwards. He tried to talk to Laurel, tried to apologize, but the hatred he got in returned was astounding. No. No, he deserved it. It really should have been him to be at the bottom of the ocean, the tide tearing the skin from his body, the fish eagerly pecking at his body.

_(“I know that it’s too late to say this, but I’m sorry.”_

_“Yeah, I’m sorry too. I’d hoped that you’d rot in hell a whole lot longer than five years.”_ )

Oh, but here, here is where it got really interesting.

Tommy was babbling on about finding some models to go screw (Oliver found it quite easy to tune him out) as they walked towards the car, when the van pulled up behind them. They moved fast, shot both Oliver and Tommy with tranqs, shoved them into the van, and sped away.

Later, it was easy to lie to the police and tell them that a guy in a green hood saved them. (Oliver still remembers how fast they went down, how easy it was to snap their necks.) But of course, _of course_ _,_ Moira wanted to keep her _beautiful, baby boy_ safe and hired John Diggle to protect him.

Oliver could see it, the anger in John’s eyes, the way that his hands seemed to be permanently curled into fists. (Fists adorned with metal knuckles.) The war never left him, despite what the man would say. Diggle was still dressed up in camo, firing a gun at the enemy, not caring whether they had families or not because the feeling of watching someone’s life drain from their eyes, the bright red stain of blood that seeped through clothing and seemed to stain everything that was nearby, it was addicting. Knowing that you had the power to take away someone’s life with a squeeze of a finger, a release of a hand, a well place punch, was like knowing that you were a god.

And gods they were.

Of course, it wasn’t long before John got himself hurt- it was bound to happen at some point. He remembers standing there, watching John crumble from the bullet wound, and he _knew_ he should let him die. He _knew_ that this strange attachment he was developing for the soldier wouldn’t lead to anywhere but trouble.

But he couldn’t just leave him there.

Could he?

Should he?

He remembers freezing (when was the last time he froze? When was the last time he didn’t take the easy route out?) and then lifting John onto his shoulder, easy carrying him down into the little basement he had been working out of. A little mixture he had learned on Lian-Yu to counteract the poison that surely laced the bullet.

A choice movement of lowering his hood, and it wasn’t long before John woke up, clutching his wound, eyes wide as he stared at Oliver in front of him.

“Oliver? You’re the vigilante?” It was a stupid question. One that didn’t need answering. John lunged at him, which was easily dodgeable.

Called him insane, horrified at what Moira _precious, baby boy_ had become. And Oliver tried to explain, tried to say why he was doing what he was doing, tried to tell John that Starling City would die if Oliver didn’t do anything.

And of course, John mocked him. “What are you gonna do? Try and fix Starling City all by your lonesome?”

Oliver’s eyes sharpened, his gaze grew venomous. “No. No I want you to join me.”

And the soldier snarled at him, disgust ringing in his voice as he pulled from Oliver’s repertoire of names. “You’re a criminal. And a murderer.”

Later, it was easy to find him again, easy to approach him in the diner. Sitting down, eyes cold. “Hello. I couldn’t help but notice a distant lack of police cars when I got home. I knew you wouldn’t drop a dime on me.” Voice quiet, emotionless like so many times before. “So. Have you considered my offer?”

And Diggle’s hands were still curled into fists, his knuckles still adorned with steel. “Offer?” A snort, eyes rolled. “That’s one hell of a way to put it.”

“It is an offer. It’s a chance to do the kind of good that compelled you to join the military.”

“Please. You were born with a platinum spoon in your mouth, Queen.” Diggle leaned forward. “What, you spend five years on an island with no room service and suddenly you find religion?” He leaned back again, eyes dancing around the room, never landing on Oliver (almost as if Oliver was scum under Diggle’s boot.)

Oliver dropped the book on the table with a small thud, folded his hands, “This was my father's.” John glanced at him, smirk curling his lips, and decided to humor him. Reaching forward and flipping through the yellowed pages. “I found it when I buried him.”

John blinked. “I thought you said your father died when the boat went down.”

“We both made it to a life raft, but there wasn’t enough food and water for both of us so he shot himself in the head.” Diggle’s mouth opened slightly, eyes wide. Oliver had is attention now. “And as much as he was doing it to give me a chance to survive I believe that he was also atoning for his sins.” Gaze hard, voice harder. John didn’t reply. “I need to right the wrongs done by my family, and I’m _offering_ you the chance to right the wrongs done to yours.”

Finally, John snapped, “Oliver, what are you talking about?”

He glanced down at the journal, “The police never caught your brother’s shooter.”

A sharp intake of breath, and “You leave Andy out of this!” spoken in a growl.

“The bullets were laced with curare. That’s Floyd Lawton’s M.O. He is the sniper.”

“Are you trying to tell me you took down Andy’s killer?” Desperation, maybe he could _finally_ gain some comfort in knowing that that _bastard_ was dead.

“I’m giving you the chance, a chance to help other people’s families.” A pause, avoiding John's question, “Do you remember when the people in this city helped each other? They can’t do that anymore because a group of people, people like my father, they see nothing wrong with raising themselves up by stepping on other people’s throats.” John glanced down, the intensity at which Oliver was speaking was making him uncomfortable. “It does need to stop,” Oliver continued, “and if it’s not going to be the courts and if it’s not going to be the cops, then it’s going to be me.”

No more smirk, no more eyes darting around the room. John was getting that Oliver wasn't the person that left in the Gambit.

He was something far more dangerous. Oliver stood up, nodded at John, and left.

Later, John stopped by at the mansion. “Fighting for this city needs to be done and you’re gonna do this with or without me. But with me, there will be fewer casualties, including you.” There was a brief pause, “But I have rules.”

Oliver smirked, and waved his hand in a _tell me all your troubles_ sort of way.

“First off, we _only_ go after the people who _truly_ did something bad. We check _every_ name on that list and make sure that your father didn’t just have a grudge against that person.”

“Fair enough.”

“And secondly,” John hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “No killing.”

Oliver’s smirk grew wider. “No.”

“No?”

“I’m not going to stop killing, John.”

“Oliver, you haven’t been in a war. You don’t know what killing does to a soul.”

Queen laughed, a mirthless, angry sound, “I’m well aware of what killing ‘does to a soul.’” He took a step forward, closer to John, eye to eye. “Don’t lie to me, John. You miss it, the war, the feeling of absolute power when you pulled that trigger.”

John’s face grew defensive, as people’s tended to do when you accused them of loving the rush they got when they ended somebody’s life. “I don’t-”

“I’m not going to stop, John. No matter what you say. I’m going to do this _my_ way, with or without your help.” Oliver leaned back on his heels. “How about this, a counter offer: I will kill as little as possible, and only to the people who deserve it.”

John grimaced, and nearly said the words that were ricocheting through his skull, _“How are we supposed to play judge, jury and executioner?_ ” But then he felt the metal pressed up against his fingers, the scratchy clothing against his skin, the unpinned grenade in his hand, and he nodded. “You, Mr. Queen, have yourself a deal.”


	5. Felicity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for such a long wait. Life literally just basically threw a brick at my face. Okay so here's basically what I'm gonna do for the next few chapters. I'm not going to write Kara's until everyone is established with their teams and have their powers and everything, so things stay pretty consistent with the canon timeline. I'm going to write Cisco's chapter next, and then either a Barry or Oliver chapter. Then I'll probably do Kara's.

She wasn’t in the prison long, of course. Once they were idiotic enough to give her access to a computer she was home free.

A few choice words to some of the guards _("You’ve got a beautiful son, don’t you, Jen? Sure be a shame if something happened to him.” “This must be a trying time for you and your family, with James going through chemo. Would be an absolute shame if you lost both your husband_ and _your daughter, wouldn’t it Jake?”_ ) and a few lines of code to glitch out the security cameras for a few minutes after twelve, and Felicity was walking straight backed out of the prison, head held high, smirk on her face, daggers in her eyes.

A blonde haired body hung from a sheet in Felicity’s cell, skin ice cold from when it was pulled out of the morgue, her face long since devoid of expression.

_(“What was your mother’s name? Elizabeth, right? Didn’t you say that she doesn’t approve of you working as an Medical Examiner? Doesn’t like you being around dead bodies, says they desensitize a person. She hasn’t smiled much recently, has she? Not since her date stood her up. I can change that, if you want. Make her smile again, I mean. It would be a little bloody though, and it might leave some scars.”_ _)_

Amazing, really, what people would do to protect the ones they loved.

(Amazing, really, what people would do to get revenge.)

But soon, the smile faded from her face, her back wasn’t so straight anymore. The adrenaline disappeared from her veins, the stars from her eyes, and her skin burned from the feeling of his _goddamn hands._

She wasn’t cut out for this.

She wasn’t a criminal, she wasn’t someone you read about in the news and shuddered because _they just can’t be human._

She wasn’t strong enough to be like that.

She was just a lowly computer hacker whose arms were full of scars because she couldn’t get rid of the feeling of being touched.

She was _nothing._

No. No that’s not right. She _used_ to be everything. She used to bathe in the sunlight and dance in the rain. She used to hug her mom and her laughter used to cause people to turn and grin. She used to smile.

Now, though. Now she pulled the blinds in her crappy motel room, blocking out the sun. Now she was too busy soaking in burning hot water to pay attention to the rain. Now, her mom thought she was dead and she no longer laughed.

She used to be everything, and that _fucking bastard made her nothing._

So she would show him.

She would show them all.

 

One of the worst things about this fucking planet is how you can’t get anywhere if you don’t have money. You can’t get a place to sleep, you can’t get food to eat, you can’t even get around easily. And Felicity, of course, didn’t have any money to her name. If she used her bank account, then her whole hung-herself-in-prison ploy would be destroyed.

Which led to one of the best and worst decisions in her life: stealing.

The first time she stole something she had just shoplifted some food. Shoved a soda under her bulky sweatshirt, a few packs of ramen into the infinite pockets, hid a bag of candy in her waistband. She was convinced she was going to get caught, convinced they were going to figure out what she was up to and send her back to prison.

But, quite surprisingly in fact, it was extremely easy. She exited the store with a large family, pulled her hood over her head, ducked into an alleyway, and laughed.

Stealing, she soon came to realize, was addicting, an itch that constantly needed to be scratched. Why pay for anything when you can hack into the hotel database and reserve a five star suite, when you can turn off a store’s power and take whatever you want because _the panic button no longer works, no matter how hard you press it._

Felicity wouldn’t even bother with the trivial concept of money at all if she couldn’t use to her advantage. But alas, people were more intimidated by a rich, computer hacking genius than a poor, motel living, ramen filled girl who _just so happens_ to be good with a computer.

 

She started out small, left a message for one of the guards of a bank, told her that if she didn’t leave exactly $10 million in a bag underneath the trash can behind the bank, than her kids would pay the price.

Silly, really, the message. Stereotypical, the type that you would find in a cheesy criminal investigation movie. But what wasn’t stereotypical was the pictures of the guard’s kids, taken from a bird's eye view above them while they slept. Taken from inside their bedrooms.

What wasn’t stereotypical was a card, embellished with the name Overwatch, taped to the bottom of the computer monitor, waiting.

The guard later got caught, got thrown in prison. But by that time another guard with another message weighing on their mind had collected the bag and deposited it far away from the bank, exactly where Overwatch had told him to.

Simple. Clean.

Easy.

 

The problem was it _wasn’t_ always easy. It _wasn’t_ always a clean getaway. Sometimes Felicity has to get her hands dirty.

The first time it happened, she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

She stumbled into the bathroom of the hotel room she was crashing in, kaleidoscopes forming in her eyes from the unshed tears.

(She would not cry. Crying is for the weak.)

The dried blood (god it was everywhere) coated her shaking hands.

(Oh my god.)

She had reached for the sink and scrubbed, desperate trying to get rid of the blood, of the feeling of the knife in her hands.

(She had killed someone.)

She kept rubbing long after the man’s blood disappeared and her own appeared.

(His eyes….)

Finally, finally, she stopped, and turned the water off. Her gaze raked upwards, towards the mirror and away from the red.

(They were so dead…)

 _Will I look different?_ It was a silly notion, but one that filled her mind nonetheless, refusing to leave until the idea was confirmed or denied. She had just killed someone after all. Shouldn’t there be some sort of mark to show what she had done? Some sort of token to represent the man’s life?

(They were so empty…)

She expected to find horror scrawled across every feature on her face.

She expected to find disgust embedded into her skin.

She expected the man’s dead eyes to be reflected in her’s.

Instead, she found a crooked grin etched into her lips, and blood spattering her face.

(She didn’t hesitate to kill after that.)

 

It took practice, of course. Reading a person to find out which family member to blackmail, whether they would care if their wife, their son, their daughter, was threatened. Sometimes, of course, a person wouldn’t listen. They’d contact the police, put themselves in protective custody, and then it became a waiting game, a game to see who could outlast the other, and Felicity had all the time in the world.

The minute- no, the second the police left them alone, the person exited the station, and suddenly they would find themselves among a pile of their own blood, air that used to be vital to survival now forming bubbles on their lips.

Sometimes Felicity would do it herself. (She had long since no longer cared for another’s life.) Sometimes she would get someone else to do it. Another, _“You wouldn’t want him to die, would you?_ ” another, _“_ _She’s so old now, so prone to falling and breaking her neck,_ ” another, _“_ _Kill him, or you die._ ”

She let the people who dared to get the police involved hope, for the briefest moment, that they and their _oh so dear_ loved ones were safe, would survive to see another day. She let them believe they were going to survive.

She never let anyone get away. Not for long at least.

(She _never_ let _anyone_ get away. _Ever._ Even if they left burning handprints on her thighs and nightmares in her brain. Even if they seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth, even if no matter how hard she searched, they were nowhere to be found.

Because it wasn’t really escape, not really. The second he would resurface, she would get him. And she would slaughter him like the filthy pig he was.)

Sometimes people would get too nosy. A reporter, or a police officer, or even, occasionally, a do-gooder politician, if there were any of those left.

For those, she would employ the people with skill in the fine art of murder. Ex-military snipers, rogue League of Assassin agents, people who wouldn’t shy away from getting up close and dirty. Always carrying the same message, always with the same cardstock sign, _“Thank you for your interest in Overwatch, but it is high time this game come to a close.”_

She made the news about a year after her prison escape. Small headline, towards the back of the newspaper. Nothing interesting that anybody would bother to read.

Barely a month later, after she killed Miss Jacqueline Price, a candidate in the upcoming mayoral election who was pledging to, _“Restore Starling City to its former glory,_ ” she made headlines. Some plucky reporter (she never bothered to learn his name) put together all the pieces, figured out that all of the calling cards she left at scenes, all of the heists that went unsolved, all of the people begging that _they had been blackmailed, goddamnit_ , was committed by the same person.

It really was about damn time someone figured it out. Felicity was getting quite bored with just the silly little people and their silly little families to mess with.

She left the police a message, that reporter, cold hand clutching the card, lying on the floor of the office building he worked in, head wound having long since stopped bleeding. And _oh_ how those police officers scrambled. Interviewed people she had long since stopped associated, tried to _profile_ her, even got the FBI involved. Really was quite fun.

They never caught her.

(Of course they didn’t.)

The problem was, was that it was _boring_ _._ It just became _so dull_ _._ She wanted something _interesting_ _,_ something to stimulate _that big brain of hers._

She found her salvation in, surprisingly, others, in their _names_ _._ Oliver Queen. Clark Kent. Bruce Wayne. Diana Prince. And then, of course, their _other_ names: The Hood. Superman. Batman. Wonder Woman.

It was _easy_ _,_ just like everything else she did. Queen’s was the simplest (really, though, did he think no one would notice that he and the Hood appeared in Starling City at the same time?) Wonder Woman only required facial recognition, as did Superman’s. Batman’s _(_ _what_ an idiotic name) wasn’t all that hard, either. Once she figured out the base of origins, it was pretty simple from there.

But what to _do_ with those names was the _real_ question. And the answer, was pretty simple. A letter to Wayne, embellished with her sigel. _(Hello Wayne, or should I say hello Batman. As you probably could tell, I know who you are. Really though, operating out of the Wayne Mansion basement? Stupid, even for you. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything. Yet. I’ll keep you posted. Yours truly, Overwatch.)_ Another quite similar one sent to Prince, and yet another sent to Kent. No. No, she sent that one to Lois Lane, to Kent’s _girlfriend_ _._ As a sign, as a _I know who you love. I know where they live. I know how to hurt you._ (She can only imagine how they _worried_. _)_

 She didn’t do anything with the Hood. He was in her hometown, and, by looking at his track record, he would come to her eventually. All she had to do was wait, and _oh_ was she good at that.

And come to her he did.

Holed up in a dingy little motel, cursing herself for not finding a spot to set up shop yet, when suddenly the windows exploded, the force of the bomb throwing her off her bed and slamming into the wall, ears ringing. A groan escaped her lips as she forced herself into a sitting position, dust stinging her eyes, when she found herself staring down the shaft of an arrow.

 _“Overwatch_ _,”_ he snarled, in that mechanically altered gravelly voice of his, _“_ _You have failed this city.”_

And she _laughed._

Wiping tears from her eyes, she stood up, ignoring the screaming in her chest--fucker probably broke a rib. She grinned at him, grease paint and green hood covering his face. No, wait, “covering” his face. Really, all you had to do was stare at him _really, really_ hard and bam. There you go, just figured out the identity of the Hood. She raised an eyebrow at him, still wary of the arrow pointed at her throat.

“I know you’re trying to be all scary and all, but really Mr. Queen? Grease paint?” She leaned back against the wall, smirk dancing across her lips. “A mask would be _much_ more useful.”

He hesitated, watching her carefully from under his hood. “I am not Oliver Queen.”

She laughed again, walking around him to grab her coffee from the bedside table. Grimacing at the layer of grime on it, she dumped it on the floor, not caring for the mess it made, and poured herself another mug from the pot. Giving herself a generous helping of sugar and cream, she turned and faced him.

“Yes, you are.” Walking closer, she poked him hard in the chest, the tip of the arrow pressing against her torso. A lazy grin, crooked and evil, eyes flashing dangerously, it was all textbook. “Now we can either _talk_ _,_ or you can kill me.” She leaned closer, arrow tip causing a spike of pain, “And I _promise_ you, I have an _amazing_ proposition for you.”

He didn’t blink. “I don’t want any of your _‘propositions.’”_ His finger holding back the string twitched, as if reminding himself who was in control of the situation.   
She blinked abruptly, and made a face. “I just realized how sexual ‘propositions’ sounded. That’s not what I meant-I mean, it _can_ be what I mean, but it wasn’t what I meant…then.” She shook her head, _“Anyways_ , all sexual innuendos aside, I really do have a good deal for you.” She plopped down on the bed, frowning at the shattered computer screens. Those cost a _fortune_. She patted the spot on the bed next to her, “Sit, sit. You must get tired from running around in a skintight leather suit all night, playing caveman with your bow and arrow.”

He didn’t move. She sighed, rolled her eyes, and continued, frowning again at the arrow that was _still_ pointed at her. “I’m amazed that your arm hasn’t gotten tired yet. Like, I can barely do a single pull up, and here _you_ are holding back the string of a bow for forever. Do you realize how _hard_ those are to pull back? Well, you probably _do_ _,_ I mean, you’re doing it right now, but-I’m rambling, aren’t I? Sorry, I do that a lot.” He didn’t blink. “Back to the proposition. We’re both in Starling City. We’re both technically criminals--” She held up a finger to his protests, “Sorry, sensitive topic, is it? We’re both criminals to the _police_. How’s that?” She grinned at him, who didn’t return her smile. Of course.

Jesus, this dude took stoic to a new level. “Okay, so why don’t we help each other out? I could help you find new baddies to take down, and _you_ could keep me busy.”

“Busy.”

She flinched again, _“Not_ a sexual innuendo, I swear.” She sighed and waved her arm at the destroyed motel around her. “But I’m _bored_ _._ This has become _boring_ _._ There’s nothing _new_ to do.” She sighed again, “You steal from _this_ bank and then a week later it doesn’t matter. _Nothing_ matters in the long run.” She stood up, grinning at him, “But with _you,_ I would be _constantly_ stimulated—er. Bad word choice.” She stood up, taking a step towards him. “We could help each other, so, whaddya say?” She held out her hand to shake, crooked smile adorning her face.

“I don’t consort with criminals.”

She sighed _again_ (she was doing a lot of sighing tonight) and raised her eyes upwards. “I thought we agreed we were _both_ criminals,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Okay: new plan. You let me help you, and I won’t release the cache of information that basically gives undeniable proof that you are Oliver Queen. Which you are.”

“I could kill you here and now.”

“But you don’t know if I have the release on a timer. Which I do. If I don’t stop it with a code that you will literally _never_ guess, then it gets sent to all of the major news outlets.” She rocked back on her heels, leaving her hand up for him to shake.

“You are blackmailing me to _help_ me.”

“Yup!”

He frowned at her, trying to discern her ulterior motive. “I already have a techie.”

She snorted, “No you don’t. Cause if you did, you wouldn’t have to torture people for information like you do. Information that is easily accessible if you hack into the right places.”

Felicity could tell he thought it was bad idea. A really bad idea. But he hesitated, almost like she was listening to someone- _ah._ Comms. “Your friend on the comms thinks it’s a good idea,” she said, smirking at him. “Hi Comms-Friend!”

Oliver’s permanent scowl deepened. “And if I say no?”

“You already know what happens if you say no.”

He paused again, before lowering his bow, watching her carefully. He reached out and grasped her outstretched hand with his gloved one, “Fine."

Her eyes lit up, and she grinned. "This is going to be  _fun."_


	6. Cisco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was seriously considering abandoning this, but then I got a comment on Chapter 5, and I decided to keep writing. And so, this chapter is dedicated to oof_me_toosh for that comment. I shall be doing Kara next, cause y’all want to see what a dick Clark is gonna be.  
> Also, one of the paragraphs in this is bolded, and no matter what I do, I can't get it unbolded. Please ignore it. My computer is being an ass right now, so I'll see if I can fix it later.

It’s weird, how things seem to be good for a while. How things don’t actually suck like usual.

Until, of course, they do.

It was all fine up until his senior year of high school. He had been living with his aunt and Aileen for a year now, and it was _great._ It was _really, really great_ . But then his mom called. Said that she wanted to give him—no, no. She said that she wanted to give _Juliana_ another chance. That she wanted to try and be a better mom.

He wanted to scream that a ‘better mom’ wouldn’t beat him until he couldn’t move. A ‘better mom’ wouldn’t call him worthless. A ‘better mom’ would get so drunk her breath reeked and then leave bruises on him when he took a small sip of champagne.  

It was bullshit, and he knew it. He knew they just wanted him back so it would be easier to explain where he was. They just wanted him back so when people asked, _“Where’s Juliana?”_ they wouldn’t have to say, _“She thought she was a he and ran away to live with her fag aunts.”_

But it wasn’t really his decision, anyways. He was a minor, and minors have no rights.

(It’s just one of those things that everyone knows but nobody comments on.)

They sent him back.

_They sent him back and he still loved them._

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ he still loved them. He loved how Ail and Tonia called him Cisco immediately after he asked. He loved how they took him to Pride that one time, wrapping him in hugs and said that he was beautiful. He loved how they loved him, treated him like the child they never had.

He loved how much they loved each other, how they would hold one another and sob each time they got worse and worse news from the hospital.

_“I’m sorry. The cancer has spread to your lungs.”_

_“I’m sorry. The cancer has spread to your liver.”_

_“I’m sorry. The cancer is now at Stage Four.”_

He wasn’t there for the funeral. He was holding an ice pack to the bruises on his back, lying on his bed, thinking a million nothings and a billion somethings.

He remembers wondering if anyone was there to hold Aileen. If she had anyone to lean on. He remembers wondering if she was going to be alright.

(But what _is_ alright? How can someone get over a loss like that? How can a person grant another their heart, and then move on the second they died, taking their heart with them?)

He remembers wondering if she would come to his funeral if he died.

(He remembers wondering if he could figure out a way to make it look like an accident.)

And then came college and his engineering major and he’s peppered with comments like, _“You’re absolutely brilliant.”_

_“You’re really going to make a change in the world.”_

_“You’re growing into a fine young woman.”_

_“You’re gonna go far.”_

And he’d burn them all down for just one, _“You’re a handsome boy.”_

He cut his hair shorter and shorter, wore binders that left his ribs aching and fingers tingling from lack of oxygen. Bought baggier and baggier clothes, hell, even purposely made his voice deeper, even though it left his throat sore.

Oh, and he cut ties.

He looked at those bridges, dosed them in gasoline, and struck a match.

He didn’t answer phone calls, would crash at a friend’s house over breaks. He would start fights with _anyone_ who called him that _fucking_ name, drowned himself in school work until he was months ahead of where he should be.

He was going far because he had _nowhere else to go._

Cisco got the call in his third year. It was late, around elevenish, his roommate nowhere to be found.

_“Are you Francisco Ramon?”_

A grimace, a frown, he really didn’t want to talk to anyone tonight, but the voice sounded professional. Serious.

“Yeah? Who is this?”

_“My name is Jason Poole. I’m a nurse here at Central General. Aileen Byrne said to call this number.”_

No. No, no, no, _no, please no._

“What—What for?” _Please._

A beat of silence, Cisco could hear his heart pounding. _Please, please, please._

_“There is no good way to say this—”_

_God,_ **_no_** ** _._**

_“Ms. Byrne died.”_

A strangled sob fell from his lips, his knees gave out—when did he stand? Was he always standing?—and he has to remind himself that someone is on the phone. Someone can hear him.

 _“How?”_ _He_ _has to know._

_“A drunk driver hit her a few hours ago. She was rushed in by ambulance, but it was too late.”_

His eyes squeeze shut, trying to block out the words, the _world._

“Thank you for calling.” What else can he say? What words properly describe the feeling of losing the _only_ _goddamned person left_ that loved him?

_“Ah, there is one more thing. Besides giving us this number, she told us to tell you something.”_

“Yeah?”

_“I’m not entirely certain what it means. She said, ‘Don’t cry. I’ll be with Tonia.’”_

And then he breaks, shatters into a hundred pieces, rocking back and forth, sobbing, sobbing, sobbing. At one point he hangs up, hands shaking so hard it took several tries before he hit the right button. The hairline fractures that line his soul grow bigger until the blackness inside swallows him whole, and he can’t remember what it felt like to be happy. At another point he thinks he throws up—he can’t remember. Doesn’t _want_ to remember.

He doesn’t ever want to remember the feeling of lying on the ground in a dirty dorm room, holding himself because the only person who would bother to do it was dead.

_Dead._

It feels like his life was one huge shit storm, interspersed with small moments of happiness, like rays of sunlight in a hurricane. That time Ail and Tonia tied that blue, pink and white flag around his shoulders like a cape. That time they all went out and got ice cream for no reason other than they wanted to. That time when he brought home a project that received top marks and they celebrated with his favorite meal.

That time working at Star Labs.

He didn’t think he’d get the job. Really, though, how many people applied every year, and how many got accepted? Star Labs only took the best, and Cisco… Cisco knew he wasn’t good enough.

Except he was.

_He was, he was, he was._

About a week after sending in his application, he got an email, requesting to meet him in person. Some nobody on the hiring committee, she never gave her name. But she did sign off right away, leading him to the _next_ part of the process.

An interview with Harrison Wells.

 _The_ Harrison Wells. The one everyone talked about, everyone praised. The one that was _worshipped_ in scientific communities. _And Cisco got to meet him._

After changing his outfit about five times, and leaving the house forty minutes earlier than he should’ve, he was there. In Star Labs. For an interview with _Harrison Wells._

It was really all textbook, shaking hands, going over his education. If Dr. Wells noticed how he changed schools three times in the span of about one year, he didn’t ask. He even at one point put down Cisco’s file and said, “Now, tell me about _you.”_

It was easy. Relaxed. And then Wells stood, smiled, and stuck out his hand. “Welcome to Star Labs, Cisco Ramon. We can discuss when you start over email.”

But that happiness only lasted for the briefest of seconds before it was gone, whisked away on some wind that smelled only of pain.

They were close to finishing the Particle Accelerator, really only a few weeks away, but then he was called to Wells’ office, making a face at Hartley’s sneer, waving to Caitlin as he went. Asked to _shut the door behind you, please_ when he reached the room.

And there was that _feeling,_ that gut instinct that came from a time when your existence was a given, not something you contemplated. Where you _know_ something is wrong. You _know_ something is about to happen.

“Cisco, you’ve been here for about a year now, and have done some very good work, too.”

The problem is is that Wells actually had the gall to sound apologetic.

“But the board has come to the conclusion to fire you.”

And suddenly he’s angry. He’s so _fucking_ angry that he can’t have _one good thing._ He wants to scream and stomp his feet, but he can only ask, “Why?”

Here Wells hesitates, like he knows what he’s about to say is wrong. “We have been receiving several complaints about you.”

_“Why?”_

“People are… uncomfortable.”

“Because I’m trans?” His voice cracks, and he really wishes it didn’t because now Wells knows he’s about to cry.

“...Yes.”

But he was _careful._ He made _sure_ that _nobody_ knew for reasons _exactly like this._ “How did—how did people find out?”

(And all the whole, a mantra of _don’t cry please don’t cry_ running circles in his head.)

“Someone leaked the information. We’re not certain who.”

He rubs his face, runs his fingers through his hair, and can’t help but say, “And you’re giving in to transphobic assholes? I thought this place was supposed to be the future.”

Wells doesn’t blink, and suddenly Cisco realizes that the man in front of him doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that each word he utters is a bullet to the gut. He doesn’t care that Cisco’s life is crashing down _again._ _He doesn’t give a fuck._ He just wants him out of his office so he can continue doing whatever the hell it was doing before.

So Cisco stands, hands balled into fists, says, “I’ll get my stuff,” and he leaves.

He leaves, he leaves, _he leaves._

When he gets to his tiny apartment that smelled of mildew, when he closes the door and drops his box of things on the table, he sees a cupcake left on the counter.

A cupcake with a candle.

And Cisco suddenly remembered that today was his birthday.

Dealing with bratty customers at Jitters always left Cisco drained, especially when he remember where he  _used_ to work. The familiar emptiness that seemed to be constantly permeating from him grew every stronger, his eyes closing in an attempt to block out the feeling.

He sat up from where he had flopped down on the bed, rain pounding into the roof, buckets scattered randomly about his tiny apartment to catch the leaking water. He meandered over to his tiny, crappy TV in the hopes of some Star Trek rerun to be on. He turned it on, and was brought to the news channel.

_“Wait, we’re now being told to evacuate the facility.”_

What?

_“The storm may have caused a malfunction to the primary cooling system. Officials are now trying to shut down the Particle Accelerator, but so far, have been unable to regain control of the system.”_

The TV cuts out. He blinks, and hits the side. Nothing happened. There was a loud boom of thunder, and the air suddenly felt charged, like one false move would send him flying across the room.

An odd sound, liquid moving, and he turned to see the water on his bedside table float.

_What?_

A crack of lightning, he glances out the window, sees a building get hit, and a wall of—of _something_ sweeps out from the edge of the city.

He has the fleeting thought that the wall is absolutely stunning _,_ a mix of blues and blacks and grays that leaves him breathless, before the it hits him, and everything goes dark.

He wakes up on the ground, head aching. He rolls over with a groan, back stiff and limbs sore.

Standing up, he manages to make it to his kitchen before he has to grab the counter to keep him from falling over, bile rising in his throat.

 _“Fuck,”_ he hisses, clutching his head as a spike seems to be driven through his skull. He stumbles, and his hand hits the picture of him, Tonia and Aileen from when things were _better,_ and he collapses.

The world flickers, once, twice, and when he blinks it looks like he’s staring through a filter. Voices drift through to him, muffled like they’re speaking through a wall, and he sees _them._ He watches as the world shakes, as they grab a random stranger to take the photo that is currently on the fridge, and he briefly remembers that _this is a memory. He shouldn’t be seeing this._

The image shakes again, almost as if he was watching it through an old hand-held camera, and he’s abruptly in his kitchen again, curled in a ball, face pressed into his cold floor.

He groans, and manages to drag himself to his sink where he vomits, the sick burning his throat.

“Shit,” he murmurs, turning on the water and splashing the cold liquid on his face. He dries his face, and manages to stumble to the fridge, where he stares at the photo.

He _saw_ them. He would swear up and down he was there _again,_ getting that photo taken. He hesitates, before reaching out and running his fingers along the photo’s glossy surface. Nothing.

He sighs, shakes his head, and turns, stumbling to the table. His hand hits the surface, and the world flickers again.

Except this time, he’s watching as a guy he’s never seen before sands the edges, fits the legs to the top, layers it with varnish. _He watches as he builds the table._

Shaking again, and Cisco’s back in his kitchen, knees weak, eyes wide, nausea worming through his stomach.

He takes a step back, trips, and lands on his ass, barely noticing that he was on the ground. He runs a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.

And then he’s weightless, tumbling through a void, the darkness pressing in on him, until he slams flat on his back in the wooded floor of his bedroom. The air knocked out of him, head hurting even more from where it hit the ground.

_“What?”_

He’s weightless again, but this time the dark lasts longer, long enough he worries if he’ll ever see he light again, and he’s in the hallway outside his apartment.

Again, and he’s in his living room.

Again, and he’s in his kitchen.

Before he can—fall? again, Cisco grabs the leg of the table, which, this time, thankfully brings no visions. He clings to it like it’s a life line, and spies his phone lying on the top.

Keeping hold of the leg, he grabs it, and dials Hartley’s number.

_Wheeling himself down the empty white hallway, he remembers when there was a time he could barely move without getting bombarded with, “Good afternoon, Dr. Wells!” He came to a stop, a seemingly blank wall in front of him. He placed his hand on the invisible pad, watched as the wall seemingly split into two, before he entered the room, leaving his wheelchair by the door. The room was covered in dots, the only visible thing in there a white stand. He walks over, presses his hand on the circle, and says, “Gideon, show me the future.”_

_“Certainly, Doctor.”_

_And an article comes up, but not_ the _article. It has the same title, sure, (FLASH MISSING VANISHES IN CRISIS), but not the same picture. Not the same byline._

_A guy in a yellow and red suit, with yellow lightning instead of red._

_It’s Kid-Flash. The sidekick._

_And the byline? Iris West. Not Iris West-Allen._

_He slams his hand into the projector, “Why is the future still not corrected?!”_

_He begins to pace, terror finally pooling in his stomach. He spins around, jabbing his finger at the article. “Gideon! What do I do?”_

_“I apologize, Doctor, but, as far as I can tell, the timeline was altered on March 18, 2000.”_

_“That’s when I killed Nora! But that was what was_ supposed _to happen!”_

_“Barry Allen went into foster care instead of going to live with Joe West.”_

_This stops Wells cold._ “What?” _It isn’t a question. More of a snarl._

_“He also meets Leonard Snart and Mick Rory, better known than their aliases Captain Cold and Heat Wave in juvenile detention. From there, he becomes a Rogue with Cisco Ramon.”_

_Wells closes his eyes, takes several deep breaths, nails digging crescents into his palms. “How do I fix this?”_

_“You can’t.”_


	7. Kara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments! As promised, here is Kara's chapter. I'll do Oliver's next.   
> 2708 words

_ The beam was heavy against her leg, shards of splintered wood drawing blood from her calf. Her head burned from the tears (both shed and unshed), and she was going to die. Her oncoming death was an indisputable fact. There wasn’t anyway out of this situation: she was trapped on a planet that was dying.  _

_ (She had tried for hours to lift the beam, straining her arms, pulling muscles in her back, but it never moved an inch.) _

_ Her headache grew steadily worse, and she was so  _ tired _. If she could just close her eyes and sleep-no. No. She was going to survive this. She was going to live to see another day.  _

_ (She was going to see Kal-El again.) _

_ Her skin was flushed to the touch, and she was finding it more and more difficult to get another good breath. It became worse when she started coughing, heaving dry exhales that raked her body and made her eyes sting.  _

_ She remembers bits and pieces, snapshots. Vomit tinted red. Her nails turning blue. The world tilting around her. The feeling of her heart pounding in her chest, like it was trying to escape.  _

_ She remembers that… that  _ thing  _ walking towards her, its gray skin blending into the smoke. She remembers trying to talk, but her throat being too dry, not being able to get enough air to speak.  _ _ The way the beam lifted off her leg, her blood causing it to stick slightly. The thing’s arm grabbing her wrist and dragging her across the ground, across glass and stones and pieces of metal. Across other people. She remembers her first sight of that ship, the one so different from the usual Kryptonian crafts.  _

_ And then, she remembers darkness. _

 

Kara shot up in bed, eyes wild, breath coming in short gasps. She pulled her legs to her chest, wrapping herself into a tight ball, keeping her eyes open to remind herself that that was  _ then _ and this was  _ now _ . She was safe, she was  _ free _ . 

But it was  _ so hard _ to forget the Aerga’s long fingers wrapped around her arm, the burning in her lungs, the feeling of that  _ damn beam _ on her leg, Kal-El’s retreating figure. 

Kal-El. 

_ Kal-El. _

And she was up, throwing off the crappy motel covers that wrapped around her frame, running her fingers through her hair once, twice, ignoring the rumbling in her stomach, the familiar pit of rage sizzling in her chest. 

She had been on Terra (Earth as the humans called it) for a month now, and she hated everything about it. From the way the mud monkeys tossed their trash into the gutters to the people wrapped in blankets sitting on the sidewalk that everyone ignored. 

But it was also  _ so fascinating _ . 

The humans were so divided, to the point where they would sneer at another just for looking differently, just for liking something they hated. And yet, they were so unitd. You couldn’t walk outside without having to hear about how so-and-so’s dog had contracted skin cancer and how this person was pregnant and that person just got married. It seemed that the human race would be unable to function if they couldn’t talk and criticize with others. 

But most importantly: they had a yellow sun. 

Flying, heat vision, super strength, super speed, invulnerability, super senses, and many more were all things that sounded like something found in a children’s comic, something you would find in the only the most far fetched sci-fi novel, and yet was the side effect to living under a yellow sun. 

And that was where the famous “Superman” came in. He flew around in an idiotic red cape with a blue suit, the House of El’s sigel brandished outlandishly on his chest, claiming to be a “superhero” and “Earth’s savoir.”

A load of bullshit, in Kara’s opinion. 

But it wouldn’t matter for much longer. In a few months time, he was going to be dead, and Earth wouldn’t have a savior. She grinned at the thought, and stepped out of the dingy motel room, wincing at the bright sunlight. 

Buildings loomed before her, gray, dirty and ugly, making her nostalgic for the towering, spires of Krypton. And then the feeling was gone, replaced with a flash of memory of that  _ fucking _ beam, and she was off, walking fast through the crowded streets, ignoring the crowd of people around her. Cutting through alleyways, darting behind office buildings, and soon she was in the poorer side of town, where the humans revealed their  _ true _ selves.

(The ones that showed when they put on a mask.) 

But she wasn’t in the streets for long, shading her eyes to look up at the abandoned warehouse by the docks. It used to be owned by some company that had long since gone bankrupt, which was  _ perfect _ for Kara. She went around back, to the set of doors that she tore the lock off of, and entered the place she had just recently started calling her own.

Her  _ gym, _ if you will. 

Cars hung from hooks, dangling from the ceiling, punched full of holes. Cinder block dust covered the floor, a ratty stopwatch was deposited on a makeshift table, burned targets were placed at farther and farther distances. A training course. To get stronger,  _ faster. _

The nightmare weighing on her mind, she hovered off the ground, positioning herself in front of a not-so beat up car. She slammed a fist into the hood, and the entire car shook, nearly falling of its hook. Another, and the metal crumpled like paper in her hand.

She didn’t have to wonder what her strength would do to a person.

She knew.

_ She knew. _

And the memories came like a tidal wave, crashing into her again and again and again.  _ That child who couldn’t have been more than five, falling to his knees, begging for mercy. But she had to end it, or they  _ both _ would have been punished.  _ She wasn’t going to die there. _ His neck snapped easily, and his eyes draining of life haunted her whenever she closed her eyes. _

_ Enough friends that she learned to stop making them. Enough lovers (even the prince of Daxam at one point) she learned to stop loving. Enough acquaintances that she learned to isolate herself.  _ She wasn’t going to die there.

_ She was going to kill Kal-El.  _

 

 

The computer screen bathed her face in a gross light, the darkness from outside slowly seeping into the corners of the motel room. She huffed in frustration as she awkwardly maneuvered through Google, her extensive searching bearing no results. 

If she could just figure out  _ how  _ the yellow sun gave them powers, than she could find a way to get rid of the powers. 

She could beat him in hand to hand combat, she was sure. 

(The several YouTube videos she had watched had shown how reliant Kal-El was on his powers. He literally had no skill when it came to actually  _ fighting,  _ and not cheating.)

She would  _ have _ to be him in hand to hand combat. 

But there was  _ nothing! _

She slammed the lid closed, and ran her fingers through her hair. 

Fine.  _ Fine.  _ She would have to do this  _ with  _ powers. 

She swung her legs over the side of her bed and stood up, walking over to her wall. It was covered with pictures, articles. Everything she could find about him, including everyone who associated with him.

Lois Lane. Her sister, Lucy Lane. Their father, General Sam Lane.

Jonathan and Martha Kent. 

James Olsen.

She leaned forward, staring at the photographer’s photo, his name scrawled messily beneath the image in red pen. And she smiled. 

  
  


 

James sighed, tapping his finger on the coffee shop’s counter. He glanced down at his watch, and fought down a groan at the time. In reality, he shouldn’t be the one to get Ms. Grant coffee, but, of course, her assistant had called in sick, and James was the first one Ms. Grant had laid his eyes on.  Bullshit, and he knew it, but he would really like to keep his job, especially since he got here just a week ago. Working at CatCo wasn’t as glamorous as he thought it would be, but then again, anything was better than freelance photography. At least he had a steady income. 

And then there was that  _ other _ thing he was supposed to do. For the big guy. He shifted slightly, keenly aware of the panic button just under the face of his watch, and felt slightly relieved when he saw the cashier holding his order. 

He smiled, paid and thanked the worker, despite knowing that Ms. Grant was going to give him hell for being gone so long, and turned to leave when he ran right into someone. 

He managed to keep from spilling his drink (God help him if he did) but the other person wasn’t so lucky. 

“Shit, sorry.” James dropped his cup down on the counter, and grabbed some napkins. He reached out to attempt to dry the now coffee covered shirt, but was quickly greeted by the fact that the person had breasts. And blonde hair. And blue eyes. And glasses. 

_ He just managed to make a beautiful woman spill her coffee. _

“It’s okay,” the woman replied, “I should have been more careful.”

James glanced at his watch again and came to the conclusion that there was absolutely no possible way he could avoid being yelled at. “Here, I’ll buy you another drink.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” the woman said, pushing her glasses further up her nose. 

“I insist.” 

A few minutes later, and with a new cup, they were talking easily. The woman, Kara, had just come from Metropolis too, hoping to find a job here.

“What are you looking for? Job wise, I mean?” James asked, tilting his head curiously.

“I was kind of thinking about acting,” she answered. 

“Well,” James leaned back in his chair, giving Kara a smile, “I think you’ll be a brilliant actress.”

She laughed slightly, almost like she had an inside joke with herself, and took a swig of coffee to cover it up. “So, what’s your job?”

“I’m a photographer for CatCo.” 

“That’s cool!” she crowed, and James felt himself growing fonder of her by the minute. “Take any photos I would know?” 

He paused, and considered not telling her, but then again, what the hell? “I took the first photo of Superman.” 

Her eyes went wide and she leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “You know him, then?” 

James laughed. “I wouldn’t call it  _ knowing  _ him. He, uh, likes to keep his personal life personal.”

“Shocker there.” 

James laughed again, and came to the sudden realization that this was the most he had laughed in  _ weeks. _ So, he did the only logical thing you do when you find someone that makes you happy. “Do you want to get dinner sometime?” 

 

 

Kara strolled into the motel room, her coffee stained shirt sticking to her skin. Her eyes landed on the picture of James, and she grinned. 

It was  _ so easy, _ and it amazed her how  _ blind _ humans could be. How  _ trusting. _ Meandering back over to the wall, she ran her finger down the photo’s glossy surface. 

He was a pawn, nothing more, and she?

She was the player who knocked all the pieces off of the board. 

 

 

Dinner went well. And coffee. And another dinner. And then lunch. And she was walking him home (she didn’t think he would take well to the idea of her living in a motel) when on his doorstep he leaned down and kissed her and suddenly she  _ couldn’t. _

She just  _ couldn’t. _

She pushed him away, gently, and wouldn’t meet his eyes when she said, “I’m sorry, but I just don’t like you like that.” She could see it immediately, the disappointment in his eyes, the anger, and she briefly worried that she had fucked everything up, when he shrugged. 

“That’s okay. Want to come over for Game Night tomorrow? I’m inviting a few more of my friends.” 

On the walk back to her crappy motel, she mentally berated herself. She could have ruined  _ everything.  _ She could have destroyed  _ everything _ she had worked towards,  _ everything _ she was fighting for. 

She was  _ supposed  _ to gain his trust. She was  _ supposed _ to wheedle out as much information from him as she could. She couldn’t  _ do that _ if James hated her. 

But… _ why? _ Why did the thought of kissing James back make her stomach roil and bile rise in her throat. 

Because she couldn’t that to him. Because, against her best wishes, she had grown to like him. Because she couldn’t hurt him like that.  

_ Because she didn’t want to be a monster anymore. _

And that one thought, that one feeling that suddenly took over her entire being, made her question her entire plan. 

And she no longer knew if she could kill Kal-El.

 

 

She didn’t sleep at all that night, her thoughts running circles in her head, and when she got to James’ house for Game Night, she knew she looked like shit.  She knocked on the door, adjusted her glasses, and tried to force her doubts into the back of her mind. The door opened, and the smile on James’s face grew tenfold. 

“Hey Kara!” He opened the door wider, letting her step inside.

“Hey James.” She held up the bag of Chinese food. “I brought food.”

A whoop came from inside the apartment, and Kara glanced around James to see who had made the sound.

And her blood ran cold. 

It was at this exact moment that she realized just how cruel the universe was, just how much it  _ hated  _ her.

She was vaguely aware of James talking, introducing them to each other probably, but a roaring in her ears made it hard to listen. 

It was  _ him. Kal-El.  _ He was standing  _ right there, _ wearing a pair of lead lined glasses, a button down and khakis and looking so utterly  _ human. _

_ And she hated him. _

“Kara?” 

She blinked, and realized they were both looking at her oddly, Kal-El with his hand outstretched. She hesitated, before reaching out to grasp it. “Nice to meet you.”

They both stared at her for a moment longer, before James turned and led the way into the kitchen.

“So, I was thinking some Mario Kart. Maybe if we get super bored Monopoly. I dunno. I didn’t really think this through,” James rambled, and Kara felt each word drive a spike through her head. The lights were too bright, their voices too loud, her hatred too strong. 

She pushed her lead lined glasses further up on her nose, hoping they would give her some relief, and snuck a glance at  _ him.  _

It made her stomach twist, watching him. She wondered if he could sleep at night, and then he laughed at some joke James had told, and she knew that he could.

_ He could, and it made her want to vomit. _

“Hey James?” She interrupted whatever video game they were going on about. “Can I use your bathroom?” 

“Yeah sure! Straight down the hall, second door on your right,” he responded absentmindedly, already launching back into his conversation with Kal-El.

“Thanks…” she murmured, and followed his directions as fast as she could without it looking like she was fleeing. 

She closed the bathroom door softly behind her, pressing the lock until she heard a soft  _ click. _ She leaned against the door, closed her eyes, and didn’t know what to do. 

He was  _ right there. _ He was unsuspecting, relaxed. She could catch him by surprise, kill him before he had a chance to even blink.  

But she  _ didn’t want to.  _

Not because she didn’t want to stain her conscious with another soul (seeing him smile and laugh and act like he had done  _ nothing wrong _ had cleared her mind of all doubts) but because it was too  _ quick. _

She suffered for  _ eleven goddamn years.  _ An easy death, a painless one, was more than he deserved. She wanted him to feel the pain she felt. She wanted him to  _ want to die.  _ She wanted him to beg for it. 

And so, in that tiny bathroom, she came up with a new plan. 

A better one. 


End file.
